It was just a shirt.
A shirt I used to hate because it told the truth.
It pulled. It pinched. It clung in all the wrong places.
It made me feel like a walking consequence —
Of meds I didn’t ask for.
Of weight I couldn’t stop gaining.
Of holding in everything I couldn’t scream.
Back then, it wasn’t cotton — it was shame with buttons.
But I kept it.
Stuffed in the back of the wardrobe.
Because some sick part of me thought I might need to punish myself again.
Today, I didn’t put it on for any reason at all.
Just laundry. Just another shirt.
But when I looked up,
I froze.
Because it didn’t pull.
It didn’t bunch.
It didn’t accuse me.
It fit.
Not in a flattering way.
In a you-survived-the-fucking-worst kind of way.
Because here’s what that shirt used to carry:
- Steroid weight.
- Stress cortisol.
- Medication bloat.
- Binge-eating to shut up the voice that said you were too much and not enough at the same time.
- Numbness. Fury. Silence.
It held all of it.
And so did I.
And now?
Now my reflection is changing — not just shrinking, but clarifying.
I see the lines of a jaw that’s reappearing.
Eyes that don’t look fogged with sadness.
Shoulders that are standing a little taller.
A body that is finally — finally — not trying to vanish to make everyone else comfortable.
This is not a glow-up. This is a reckoning.
I’m not here to be praised.
I’m not here to pretend this was fun.
I’m here to say:
I wore the damn shirt.
And it fit because I fought for it.
So no — I’m not done.
But I am not drowning anymore.
I am not shrinking out of shame.
I am not carrying your silence, your expectations, your judgment on my skin.
I’m reclaiming the body that got me through hell.
And the shirt that once mocked me?
It can hang loose now.
Like surrender.
Like freedom.
I’m not done.
But I’m no longer lost.
And that’s enough to keep going